Murder To Die For Read online

  Copyright© 2017 Bety Comerford (B.T. Lord)

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  Cover Art by Grace Gregory Currier

  ––––––––

  Other books in the Twin Ponds Mystery Series:

  Murder on Ice

  Murder by Misadventure

  A Perfect Case of Murder

  Murder By Duplicity

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  To Grace | Sensitive Artist and Dear Friend

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Excerpt from | Murder on Ice | The first book in the Twin Ponds | Murder Mystery Series

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  To Grace

  Sensitive Artist and Dear Friend

  PROLOGUE

  It stood like an eyesore that many thought, but would never say should be torn down. That should’ve been torn down ages ago.

  The house had once been beautiful; a turreted Victorian built one hundred and fifty years before in a way they didn’t make houses anymore. It boasted silk wallpaper, crown molding in the ceiling and walls, and polished oak bannisters. Glass doors opened into what had once been a magnificent library, complete with a marble fireplace and teak mantelpiece.

  But as with humans, the house had not aged well. It was long past its prime. Where once families had brought their light and love and laughter, the house was now dark. Old. Neglected.

  Angry.

  It was that intangible anger that kept people away. That made them wary whenever they looked out their own window and saw it sitting there at the end of their street – like a bad stain that wouldn’t come out.

  If it had been any other house, the marble would have been carted away long ago, the wood stripped the glass in the chandeliers stolen. But people knew. You didn’t go into this house. You left it alone. Because if you left it alone, it would leave you alone. That was the unspoken deal.

  It was known as the Taylor House, named after the family that had built it soon after the Civil War. No one knew much about them. They’d made their fortune logging in the extensive Maine wilderness that surrounded Twin Ponds. Then they’d suddenly lost it all, though how was still a mystery. Yet it seemed the bad luck that surrounded the house started with them. After they lost the house and moved away, the bad luck retreated. Like shadows petrified of the light, content to lurk in dark corners.

  Over the intervening years, families came and families went. The only similarity between them all was the short amount of time they stayed. It was never more than six months. They disappeared as quickly as they appeared. Rumors began to spread. But they were only rumors.

  Until Halloween night in 1955 when rumor became reality. Five teenagers – three girls and two boys dared each other to enter the house. They’d heard the stories, but convinced themselves that was all they were – stories to scare cowards on dark autumn and winter nights. They were different though. They weren’t cowards and they’d prove it, if only to themselves. They waited until midnight on All Hallows Eve, when the veil between the living and dead was supposed to be at its thinnest. They entered the house through a back window. They stepped inside the discarded, abandoned house.

  And were never seen again.

  Their disappearance was never solved. It became a footnote in the ghostly and inexplicable legends of New England. Occasionally the story would be resurrected by a bored news media. People would then come by and stare at the house. A few even dared to enter. But only during the day. And only when it was sunny. No one thought it wise to challenge the shadows at night. When they were in their element.

  At the time of the disappearance, a few souls clamored to have the place torn down. To finally remove the blot on their street. But no one had the guts to actually go through with it.

  Years went by. As the disappearance of the teenagers faded into forgotten myth, a few brave souls tried to fix up the Taylor house, eager to make it a home again. But disaster always struck. A ladder suddenly collapsing. Tools disappearing. The last straw was ten years before when an experienced roofer suddenly plunged off the turret, narrowly avoiding death, but injuring his back to an extent he could never work again.

  In the meantime, other houses sprang up around the mansion, but if you looked closely, you noticed that each of the new homes were built a respectable distance away. As if an invisible barrier surrounded the Taylor house that you didn’t dare cross.

  So the townspeople lived their lives around the house. Ignoring it. Pretending it wasn’t sitting alone at the end of the street. Watching them. Waiting.

  Then it happened. Something the people who lived near the house dreaded. They awoke one Saturday morning in August to the sounds of repair trucks and workmen going in and out of the house. It seemed someone had gotten the idea of opening the place up as a haunted house attraction for the month of October, just in time for Halloween. They planned to rig it up with all sorts of frightening apparitions guaranteed to terrify anyone who crossed its threshold.

  The neighbors watched silently as the four new owners, obviously not locals who knew better, brought in effigies of ax murderers, bloody zombies, vampires, homicidal clowns and all manner of monsters. What frightened them most was the date the house was planning to end the haunted house tours by hosting what they called the Dead Time Ball. It was to be held Halloween night. At midnight. The anniversary of the day the five teenagers disappeared.

  They shook their heads, silently wondering why these people were bringing in fake evil when they were surrounded by the real thing.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Three weeks before Halloween

  ––––––––

  There was already a cold nip in the night air, whispering the promise of colder temperatures soon to descend on this tiny town of 1,500 inhabitants nestled in the middle of the Maine wilderness near the Canadian border.

  Sheriff Cammie Farnsworth and her boyfriend, Jace Northcott, stood at the front of a long line of people snaking its way down the gravel road. They’d been standing out in the cold for over thirty minutes, the chilliness beginning to wheedle its way past her two sweaters, anorak, gloves, wool hat and jeans. She glanced at her watch and saw they had five minutes to go before The Murder House, the name the new entrepreneurs had dreamed up to advertise their event, was due to open.

  She had to admit, they’d outdone themselves to set the right tone for the evening’s entertainment. The road leading up to The Murder House was lined with hundreds of jack-o’-lanterns on either side, their expressions ranging from the happy to the horrific. Each contained a flickering candle, lending an air of the macabre to the setting. As if countless pairs of grimacing eyes stalked your every step.

  As Clarke County’s first female elected sheriff, Cammie had visited the house several times w
hile the reno work was being done to check up on its progress. She’d seen the enormous effort the quartet brought to bringing the old place, not only up to code, but back to life. When she asked how they’d found the property, they said they’d discovered it on the ‘Maine’s Most Haunted Places’ website. Reading its history and seeing photographs of its dilapidated state, they instantly knew it would suit their needs. Especially when they discovered its cheap price tag.

  Yet, despite the new coats of paint, the refurbished plaster and floors, the decades of neglect slowly washed and repaired away, there was still an underlying unease she couldn’t quite put her finger on that surrounded the Taylor mansion. Was it fear? Was it anger?

  Standing in the queue and looking up at the turret awash in brightness from the floodlights the new owners had installed, she suddenly realized what it was.

  Anticipation.

  But of what, she couldn’t yet answer.

  “Hard to believe we’re actually going to pay to get into this place.”

  She turned to look up at her boyfriend. Standing at a muscular 6 ft. 3 inches, Jace was Twin Ponds’ mechanic extraordinaire, as well as the captain of the Night Hawks, the county’s celebrated hockey team.

  She’d met Jace at Zee’s Bar and Grill, the center of life and gossip in Twin Ponds soon after returning, after a fifteen year absence, to settle her father’s small estate. As much as she’d tried to resist the instant attraction – she was a sucker for his midnight blue eyes and chocolate colored hair that fell into his eyes – it was no use. She tried to come up with all sorts of excuses not to get involved – he was seven years younger than she was, she was cursed in the relationship department, she wasn’t even sure she was staying. Ultimately, all of it was an exercise in futility.

  They were now living together in a tiny cabin on Mkazawi Pond that had once belonged to her late father. And they were now standing in line to get into a house that, despite the long queue of people eager to get in, evoked a primordial fear in all their hearts.

  The famous psychoanalyst Carl Jung coined a phrase for it – the collective unconscious. The belief that humanity shared memories and impulses common to mankind as a whole.

  Glancing back up at the house, Cammie thought of the collective terror of being eaten alive. Of finding yourself trapped within the jaws of a shark, the fangs of a lion, the claws of a bear.

  Or walking through the front door of The Murder House.

  She involuntarily shuddered.

  “Us and half the town,” she answered as she looked back at the ever growing line of eager customers.

  “I’ve heard that, despite being open only a week, a lot of these folks have been through the house at least three or four times already,” Jace replied.

  “Really? Isn’t that going to defeat the purpose of getting scared if they already know what’s inside?”

  He shrugged. “It’s no different than you and me watching our favorite horror movies over and over again. We know what’s coming, but we get scared anyway.”

  She agreed. “It’s like that creepy scene in ‘Poltergeist’ where the clown hides under the kid’s bed. You know he’s going to pop out, but the anticipation is what kills me every time.”

  There was that word again – anticipation. Was that what she’d been feeling all along? The anticipation of, as her deputy Rick Belleveau described to her after going through the house – ‘a pee your pants roller coaster ride of emotions’?

  Or was it the anticipation of something darker? More insidious? That insane willingness to gleefully walk into the den of hungry lions with your eyes wide open?

  She burrowed into her anorak as a cold wind swirled around the crowd. “When I was a kid, you couldn’t get me anywhere near this place,” she admitted. “Hell, I wouldn’t even ride my bike on this street.”

  “My friends and I used to dare each other to walk up to the front door and knock. When I was twelve, Jonny Parker bet me five dollars I wouldn’t scramble up to the windows and look inside,” Jace explained, the vapor from his breath swirling in the space between them.

  “Did you?”

  “Of course I did. I had a reputation to uphold.” They laughed.

  “What did you see?”

  “Lots of furniture covered over with sheets.”

  She smiled at him. “Were you scared?”

  He smiled back. “No. I was petrified. But you know, once I saw the furniture covered up and the thick layer on dust on everything, my fear turned to sadness. I felt as though the house somehow knew it would never be what it had once been. It would never be loved or cared for again. It would never make memories for whatever family lived there.”

  Cammie leaned up and kissed him. That’s what she loved about Jace. He was deep and sensitive, with a kind heart and a calmness that eased her. Yet at the same time, he was no pushover. He was tough and focused and determined, traits he’d shown countless times on the ice.

  “Of course,” he continued, “the sadness turned back to fear when I remembered how this house swallowed up five kids.” He too looked up at the house. “Maybe now that you’re sheriff, you can figure out what happened to them.”

  “That was a long time ago. If they were murdered, and I’m not saying they were, their killer is probably long dead by now.”

  “Yeah, but it’s still a good mystery to solve. And I’m sure their families would like some kind of closure, don’t you think?”

  She gently changed the subject. “With the reputation this place has, I wonder how the owners convinced some of the locals to work here.”

  “I asked Nathaniel that. He said the paycheck wasn’t bad and he got to pick the character he plays.”

  Nathaniel Tucker was a naïve and very impressionable eighteen year old who manned the register at the garage where Jace worked. He felt himself extremely lucky to be working alongside his sports hero, which both flattered and embarrassed Jace. The teenager wasn’t the brightest in the brains department, but he was loyal, self-deprecating and conscientious at a job that was boring most of the time.

  “Who is he playing?” Cammie asked.

  “Leatherface from ‘The Texas Chainsaw Massacre’.”

  “Complete with a real chainsaw?”

  “Oh yeah. That’s his favorite part. I think he’s exorcising some inner demons with it.”

  “As long as his inner demons don’t include actually using that chainsaw on someone.”

  Jace leaned over and whispered in her ear, “I think he’s doing it to impress the girls.”

  She guffawed. “Of course. Seeing a guy wielding a chainsaw always makes my heart go all a flutter.”

  He laughed. “From what Nathaniel told me, it’s a pretty big chainsaw. And you women are always saying size matters.”

  “Hey, you guys made it!”

  Cammie and Jace turned to see Rick walk up towards them. Half French Canadian, half Native American, he was tall and lean, his features a perfect blend of both races.

  She was surprised to see him alone. Rick had what one would term a complicated love life. A relationship to him was one that lasted a week. Yet despite the revolving door of women, he somehow managed to keep on good terms with all his exes. It was a feat Cammie silently admired, and a skill she knew she’d never master.

  Tonight, his shoulder length jet black hair which he only wore in a ponytail when he was on duty, was loose and billowing about in the wind. As usual, despite the cold temperatures, he was dressed in a light jacket, jeans and a turtleneck. Cammie was convinced that in addition to his Native American blood, he was also part Husky. The guy never seemed to get cold, even in the dead of winter, while she was still struggling to acclimate herself to the frigid temperatures after being away from Twin Ponds for fifteen years.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going through again,” she teased him. “This must be your gazillionth time.”

  “Nah. It’s only my eighth visit.”

  “Eight?”

  “Hey, what can I say? Th
is place is epic. And who doesn’t like to get the piss scared out of them, especially at this time of year?”

  Cammie inwardly smiled. Her deputy had a way with words.

  “You alone?” she asked.

  “Nope. Carissa is holding our place in line.”

  “Carissa? I thought you were seeing Patty.”

  “That was Monday. Today is Friday.”

  “Ah, that makes perfect sense,” she replied sarcastically.

  “Can’t wait to hear tomorrow what you think about this place. I think you’re really going to love it.”

  Before she could respond, he was gone.

  “At least Rick is far enough behind that if either one of us does pee our pants, he won’t see it,” Jace remarked.

  He had a point.

  “I’ll only pee my pants if I see a clown. I hate clowns,” she confessed.

  Jace chortled. “I can almost guarantee they will have a clown. Probably several homicidal, terrifying killer clowns.”

  She playfully smacked his shoulder with her fist. “Then it’s a good thing Rick is waaaay down the street. I’ll never live it down if he sees me screaming.”

  The front door finally opened. A young woman dressed as a zombie stepped outside and smiled when she saw Cammie.

  “Hey sheriff, so happy you finally made it to our extravaganza.”

  “Never would have missed it. Penelope, this is my boyfriend, Jace Northcott. Jace, this is Penelope Masters. She’s one of the owners.” They nodded at each other.

  “How much do we owe you?”

  “It’s on the house for you, Sheriff.”

  Cammie shook her head. “No preferential treatment, please.”

  “Okay then. That’ll be $30.00 for the two of you.”

  Jace handed her the cash and she stamped their hands with a skull and crossbones.

  “Looks like you got a good crowd tonight,” Cammie observed.

  “We’ve had a good crowd since we opened. At this rate, we’ll make back our investment in no time.” She winked at the sheriff. “Your town really likes to be terrified.” Cammie had no answer to that. Penelope stepped aside and pointed towards the door. “Enjoy your journey to hell,” she grinned.